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emmyrosee · 2 years

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hi emmy!! first off, i wanna say that i absolutely ADORE your writing and the way you interpret the characters, 11029238/10, top-tier stuff. also, i'd like to offer you a thought, a breadcrumb of an image, if you will. miya osamu in a rivals-to-lovers setting. what do you think? hope you have a great day filled with nice things!!

Oh… oh babe… whAT HAVE YOU DONE-

Also you’re the sweetest and you’re gonna make me cry so hush up before I smooch you 🥺❤️

This could work in so many settings.

But imma roll with a classic one bc I’m uncreative and love a cheesy trope 💅🏼 but if you want me to rewrite it lmk HAHAHA-

Picture it. You’re part of some petty crime gang, and you’re a late entry. He’s been there for years, ever since his brother’s the one who took off with a career in the one thing they were good at. This is his domain now; he knows you probably can’t hold your own and that you don’t deserve to be there, and rather than just expressing those thoughts, or even just dealing with them, Osamu Miya makes it his mission to make you miserable.

Cutting over you during briefings, refusing to do any sort of organization with you, taking credit for things you did on an outing, he’s an absolute worthless piece of company, and the minute you gain control you plan to send him the fuck away.

He’s old, okay, he’s been in the game far too long, and you’re sure to start letting him know that when he starts opening his mouth about your skills. It ears you both an adult version of scolding, but it doesn’t stop you.

“You want respect, you gotta earn it,” he snaps.

“Likewise, grandpa.”

And you don’t know why, but today, he’s been an absolute prick, going out of his way to ensure you are seen as a ridiculous little girl rather than any form of an actual gang member. He’s yelling, barking in your face, grabbing your arm to bring you places instead of just telling you where to go.

“Osamu. You don’t yell at someone like that,” people finally step in.

“I’m not yelling at someone,” he spits. He looks at you in disgust, “I’m yelling at her.”

And listen. You’re not one for violence, it was something that pissed the other members off. But this time, your hand reaches up to smack him hard, hard across the cheek, leaving a bright red mark in its place.

“I do not need your criticism,” you snap. “And this gang certainly does not. Need. You.”

“You don’t know the half of the shit I deal with for you-“

And again, your hands fist his collar and your shove him back into the wall, body on full adrenaline and pulsing with anger, “I don’t need your fucking pity. You are nothing to me.”

You flick him away like cigarette ashes before storming up and out of the clubhouse, slamming the door and letting the cool air of outside try to calm you down.

You could kill him. You could destroy him, and he doesn’t even care; one day, you would. You’re sure of it.

But for now, you let your exhausted legs carry you home and into your bed to try and let the chaos and fury of the day drip away.

That is, until about one am that night.

There’s a furious pounding on the door, quick and loud and it startles you fresh out of sleep, scrambling under the covers. It doesn’t stop, and you quickly grab your blade and scurry to the door, peering just enough into the peephole. “I know you’re right there,” an all too familiar voice (though it sounds nothing like him right now) calls through the door. “I just want to talk.”

“I’m armed.”

“I’m not.”

Your face drops in confusion before you open the door, and the sight before you had your breath getting caught in your throat and face paling.

“Miya…” you croak, eyes glazing up the massive frame in front of you. “What… what are you doing here?”

“I didn’t know where else to go,” he whimpers, the man audibly whimpers up at you, and your heart leaps in your chest when you look at his hands. “I couldn’t go anywhere else.”

They’re bruised, sliced up at the knuckles and torn along the bone, bleeding as he flexes them to keep them from scabbing. When you meet his eyes once again, and his face is no better, scratched and bruising and eye swollen from some form of hit.

He looks rough. Really rough.

“Good God,” you whisper in awe. “What happened?” You don’t think twice before your hand wraps around his thick wrist and gently tugs him into your place, locking the door and guiding him to the bathroom. He plops on your toilet while you gather some first-aid; he doesn’t answer you again, and you feel your nerves starting to pulse.

Silence falls on him, his eyes advert to the floor and far from you. You don’t pry, but you’re so used to him yelling at you that you don’t know how to react to his quiet.

“Hand,” you command, settling between his legs to tend to his wounds. He sighs and passes you his hands, wincing slightly when your finger presses into a wound.

“Gentle,” he mumbles, leaning his head back against the wall.

“Didnt know that word was in your vocabulary.”

“Usually ain’t.”

More silence. He whines occasionally at the stinging of peroxide, but he says nothing and you hate that. You have so many questions, so many thoughts, and he should know by now that you’re not gonna not ask them.

“Miya?” You say quietly. He grunts softly, and you give him a shaky sigh, “why… why are you such an asshole?”

“I’m a criminal who jumps men in the street when they owe us money, you’re gonna have to be a little more specific.”

“That’s not being an asshole,” you counter, wrapping a bandage around his hand. “That’s doing your job. That’s what we do.” He rolls his eyes, but you continue, “you’re an asshole to me, Miya. And… and I don’t even know what I did.”

He stays silent before retracting his hand from yours. His eyes turn towards the ceiling and he takes a sharp swallow, evident by the bobbing of his adam’s apple. You wait patiently, blinking up at him calmly, and he finally meets your gaze with a boyish glimmer past the cold, sharp pools of grey.

“Because… because you don’t belong here.”

“I’ve made my damn place very clear-“

“Shut up,” he says sharply, and while normally you’d smack him and tell him what-for, instead his vulnerability has you silent. “That’s not what I meant. I don’t care if you have your place in out gang; that’s not the fucking point.

“You shouldn’t be there,” he continues, sighing shakily. “I don’t know what brought you to us, or what you did to land yourself here, but anything else would’ve been better. People die out here; you’re too good for this shit, you deserve so much better than anything our bullshit can give you.”

“Don’t act like you know me, or understand the things I do,” you firm, and he peers at you through thick lashes. “And if I deserve so much better, why do you consistently make my life an absolute hell?”

“Because if you start to show dominance, they’re going to turn on you.” His quick answer shows he’s being genuine, and a shiver shoots down your spine. “In case you haven’t noticed, you’re the only woman in the damned gang that isn’t just an Old Lady. The minute you start getting brave, they’re gonna swallow you whole, princess.” His teeth grit, “and I’m not gonna let them do that to you.”

You cross your arms, “I can handle myself.”

“This isn’t about handling,” he snarls, and you see him tense back up like a beast in agitation. “I don’t care if you can handle your own- hell, you probably can. But there’s a reason you and I get stuck together doing petty shit; they’re going out there. You start poking your nose in that, they’re going to snap that pretty little neck of yours.”

“Shoji wouldn’t do that-“

“Not while I’m around.” He leans back against the toilet, looking down on you. “I keep you on my leash because if he so much as looks at you I’m-“

The vein in his forehead pops out at the mere idea of you getting anything other than respect, and at the sight, you’re quick to soothe him by cupping his swollen cheek in your hand.

“Miya,” you whisper, leaning in. “I’m fine. I trust them-“

“You never asked me why I’m busted up,” he cuts, leaning his head into your cool hand. “I’ve been in this gang for six years, I don’t trust these assholes. You can’t get comfortable; it’s why I’m here.”

A warmth fills your lungs and you mewl softly at his words, rising on your haunches to be closer to him. He seems taken aback, but rather than shift back to get distance, he leans down closer in challenge.

“I don’t need you to protect me,” you reiterate, and he huffs hot air through his nose. “But… I do like the idea of you being there to keep them at bay.”

“The shit I do for you and you don’t even realize it,” he scoffs, his eyes glazing your features. “Make you un-fucking-touchable.”

“I already was.” Your hands smooth up his bulky arms, and you relish in the way he shivers. “But now, with you here,” you pant, a loving hand smoothing ip the back of his neck, pulling him close to you. “I’m invincible, Miya. I never doubted for one second that you didn’t have my back.” You giving him a reassuring, albeit playful, smirk, watching a small grin of his own spread over his face. It splits the scab that had already started to form, crimson slowly slipping from the gash and down his chin.

One of your fingertips gently trace the ripped skin, watching his blood spread under your touch, “no one’s gonna ever touch me… not when you’re around, huh?”

“You make it all worth the trouble, doll,” he rasps, his own mammoth of a hand coming up to cradle the back of your head into a kiss. He tastes like blood, like cigarettes and menthol and neon and danger and it has you a putty in his hands. Your nails scratch at the buzz of his undercut, making him shiver and growl into your mouth.

His tongue is sharp, just like his words, his lips are torn up and he kisses you like it’s a challenge he wants to win, like a starved man with a morsel of food; gnashing teeth nip at your lips and grabbing paws keep your energy electric, and damn you’ve never wanted someone more.

Hands scoop under your thighs to pull you up and onto his lap, cradling him to the porcelain of the toilet while he continues to touch. Almost as if he’s memorizing your frame. His lips start to trail down your neck, suckling hard when he finds a spot that makes you keen or gasp.

It was wild.

Much like miya osamu himself.

“Who knew you cared so much about little old me?” You tease, and you feel him smirk against your neck.

“Don’t push your luck… you’re still a little princess bitch who needs to stay in her lane.” He lifts his head from your neck to lean nose-to-nose with you.

“And I can’t wait to knock you down a peg.”

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